


Affliction

by babyfairy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, i can never get enough of these two just supporting each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 14:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10467180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyfairy/pseuds/babyfairy
Summary: Sometimes he forgets how much they have in common.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A short piece inspired by more artwork, specifically [this](http://babyfairybaekhyun.tumblr.com/post/156192802755/vindictev-zutara-month-affliction-because-they).

There is something about this home that dredges up unwanted melancholy. For Zuko, it brings back memories that seem like they belong to a different life time. 

Tonight he finds himself thinking about that life time, when the house was brighter, didn’t feel quite so dead. He remembers the way his mother would glide through the halls; that she somehow always knew just what her children would be up to. He remembers a time when his father didn’t scare him, when he would sit at the beach for hours with his children.

Rubbing his face, Zuko sighs and pushes the blanket off of his legs. He slides to his feet and watches the window at the other end of the room for a moment. The moon is absent tonight; what light filters in to the room comes from the stars, distant and faint. He stands, foot steps silent as he leaves his room.

Zuko isn’t sure where exactly he’s going. He considers for a moment going down to the beach, but he’d had his fill of sand in his hair earlier. So he keeps to the house, wandering slowly from room to room. Occasionally he brushes layers of dust from picture frames or figurines on shelves. Mother hated dust gathering on her collectibles.

It startles him to find Katara sitting in one of the empty bedrooms, one that she hadn’t claimed when they arrived. 

He lingers in the door way, watching her. Her back is to him. Her hair is loose still, messy waves that appear black in the darkness. For a moment he isn’t sure what she’s looking at. And then his eyes adjust, and he recognizes a portrait of his mother. 

Zuko steps into the room. He makes sure Katara hears him coming, so as not to startle her, and sits down beside her. Her eyes never leave the portrait. Zuko looks up as well, studying the face of his mother. The canvas has aged, yellowed in some spots. The paint is cracked and faded, yet the Fire Lady still looks poised and elegant.

“She’s very beautiful,” Katara says. Her voice is soft, muted in the dark.

He can’t find his voice, so he nods instead. His mother’s beauty was often cited, mingled with mentions of her wit and grace. 

Zuko sees so much of Azula in that face that it pains him.

“I don’t have any pictures of my mother.”

Finally, he turns to look at her. He only sees her profile, but the sadness emanating off of her is palpable. 

There’s a faint hitch in her voice as she says, “Some days I can’t even remember what she looked like.”

Zuko isn’t aware of what he’s doing until his arms are around Katara. He pulls her into him, one arm around her shoulders, the other settling across her back. She puts up no resistance, simply falls into his chest, and he’s never been more aware of just how small she is until now.

Katara’s tears fall, steady and quiet. They stain his tunic as her fingers curl in the fabric. Her shoulders shake against his arm, her sobs muffled by his chest. 

To the rest of the world, Katara is a pillar of strength. She is an unmovable force and nothing else. Zuko sees these things, too, but he also sees past them. It is a luxury Katara has rewarded him with.

It is a sign of her trust in him, a reward that he will never jeopardize again. He knows that no one else has seen this side of her. He knows that if he had not found her, she would have cried alone, would have allowed herself to drown in this heartbreak without an anchor to hold onto. 

“I’m terrified of forgetting my mother’s face,” He whispers. His chin comes to rest atop her head; her hair is coarse but soft, tickling his skin slightly. “I was so young when she disappeared, I -” He doesn’t know where that thought is going, so he sighs instead.

Katara sniffles, the sound practically echoing in the empty room. “You look like her,” She mumbles, and Zuko feels his heart stumble behind his ribs. “You have her brows, and - and I know it’s only a picture, but - her eyes are so warm. Just like yours.”

Zuko swallows thickly, throat suddenly tight with emotions he hardly dares to let himself experience. His arms tighten around Katara; her fingers tighten in his shirt in response. 

Zuko has never been good with words. He is better with actions, with responding rather than thinking. But tonight he thinks that he could be an anchor for Katara, could be a steady pillar for her, like she is for everyone else around her. Himself included.


End file.
